


the peace of sleep

by fitzefitcher



Series: I'm going to save all the Legion NPCs and no one can stop me [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Emerald Nightmare, Gen, Val'sharah Questline, but yeah p much all the NPCs listed get saved eat my whole ass blizzard, except Xavius get fucked, xavius aside of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzefitcher/pseuds/fitzefitcher
Summary: Thaon Moonclaw is rescued through unconventional means, and finds himself questioning the motives of his rescuer, one of Khadgar's many champions, as they work together to rescue everyone else.





	the peace of sleep

**Author's Note:**

> here are all the NPCs that get rescued/get to live in this:  
> Thaon Moonclaw, Ysera, Elothir, Oakheart, Archdruid Glaidalis and all the druids w/ him, that dragon in darkheart thicket, etc.

His world is awash in black and red.

The trees have been warped and twisted by corruption, blackened and seemingly burnt, shadows lingering in the cracks. Most seem to have taken on truly strange growths, looking like glossy, bloodshot eyes rolling around in newly-formed sockets. The thicket he finds himself in is no different, eyes following him wherever he goes, vision blurry with red mist and split into copies of itself. The woods whisper maddeningly all around him, and he no longer feels safe in the place he once called home.

He’d made the mistake of attempting to take on the satyr himself, and now found himself here, stumbling through a thicket that seems to watch his every move and into a burrow emptied of its residents. He doesn’t even quite remember how that encounter went, actually, just that he’d leapt at him with tooth and claw, and then, nothing. The satyr must have done something to him, that much is clear, but it’s hard to think, let alone remember exactly what, when his senses have been this severely altered.

He begins to hear footsteps, someone coming down the tunnel, but it’s hard to pick out exactly where, the sound doubling and echoing through the chamber and his addled brain.

“Here you are,” someone says, the sound of their voice warped. It’s a tall someone, he thinks, form stretched long and thin, murky in the mist. Their steps sound as though they come from hooves rather than feet, and he swears, horns rise from their head and curl back like a crown. Shadows converge in their fist, and the whispers grow louder. It’s the satyr, he fears, hackles raising as unease prickles up his spine. He tenses visibly, and the satyr tuts at him.

“I had a feeling that we shouldn’t have split up,” it chides lightly. It sighs, the sound echoing strangely. Confusion ripples through him. “Not to worry, we’ll have you back soon enough.” At this, a seam forms in the air over its fist, eerie light opening into a large eye, rolling in its unseen socket until it finds him and locks on. This one, this one is different, somehow, the presence of it pointedly separate from the ones he feels lingering in the mist. The pupil narrows into a slit, and more and more eyes begin opening in the dark all around him. He backs up without realizing it, hackles raised, growling. The whispers grow louder still.

“Now, now,” the satyr says. “Everything will be alright. Please, hold still.”

Shadowy tendrils begin rising from the earth beneath his feet, and before he can bolt, wrap themselves around his limbs, holding him captive. He thrashes in their grip, panicking, snarling, but the shadows respond by merely holding him tighter. The whispers have become waves of noise crashing against him, and he can scarcely hear the satyr say, “I apologize for your discomfort, but this must be done.”

The satyr approaches him, dark rising behind it with every step forward, more and more eyes blinking into existence. The dark spreads, and there is no thicket, no red murk, no blackened trees with bloodshot eyes lingering in the cracks. There is only him, and the satyr, and the veil of dark with yellow eyes flickering like candles all around him. The satyr kneels before him, hooves hidden by its long robes, and its eyes are white pinpricks in the dark.

He hears, _we must find the heart of it and drink deep of the corruption._ The voice is neither his nor the satyr’s, and he knows only fear. The satyr nods, takes hold of his mane in one hand, and the other sinks into his breast, the glimmering shadows forming a piercing blade. No pain fills his wound, but cold spreads through his veins, dulling his senses.

 _Know peace, child of Cenarius_ , he hears, and the whispers fall silent. _Know sleep,_ he hears, and his eyelids close, despite himself. He hears, _you will be returned to yourself soon enough,_ and he drifts into slumber without much struggle.

“There, now,” he hears in the moments before sleep has him fully. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

\---

His slumber is dark, and strange, and dreamless, almost pointedly so, cutting him off both from the Emerald Dream as well as any of his own. He doesn’t quite feel asleep, more so stuck between actual sleep and wakefulness. It’s not entirely unpleasant; it’s a sort of floating passively through a quiet, warm twilight. He thinks he may be moving, but he’s not entirely sure. It’s hard to be sure of anything currently, and he finds he doesn’t mind being caught in the embrace of this sleep, everything sort of far away.

He comes back to consciousness in degrees, sounds becoming clearer, mind less fuzzy. There are people talking, but he doesn’t quite hear words so much as noise for some time, really only coming to when he’s able to decipher tone. They’re worried, angry maybe, and it ebbs at the twilit fog until it finally disperses.

“…take his place in the ritual, if it comes down to that,” the satyr says. The sound is jarring; their voice isn’t as nearly as deep or warped as it was before in the clutches of the nightmare. He blinks, eyes opening slowly and squinting at the light. It takes him another minute or so for the shapes to work themselves out, still a little blurry and dark for a few moments while his sight adjusts.

The satyr, as it turns out, is actually a draenei. With dark brown hair and dark purple skin and horns, it’s the same draenei that he had been clearing out the enclave with in the first place- one of the champions Archmage Khadgar has been sending all over the continent. Koda stands next to her, openly relieved, and Malfurion still remains by his ailing teacher’s side, along with the ancient, Elothir. Ysera watches the proceedings warily, eyes flicking between Cenarius and Thaon.

Unthinking, he touches his hand to just under his breast, where there should have been a wound, and realizes two things: one, that he at some point reverted out of his animal form, and two, there was no wound to be found. This wakes him up right quick, blinking the light out of his eyes and searching fervently for a few anxious seconds before he can make the connection.

“There you are, Thaon,” Ethelde says cheerfully. “You had us worried for a while, there,” she continues, smiling with eerily sharp teeth. Usually, it was relatively easy to forget that the draenei and eredar were at one point one and the same. Ethelde made it difficult, towering over her fellows with her tall stature and long horns, and a long tail trailing behind. The dagger on her hip didn’t particularly help with that, what with its regarding him with its single eye fastened onto the guard. The others don’t appear to notice it.

“Thaon,” Koda starts, before the draenei can say anything else. “Are you hurt?” He thinks about it for a moment, assessing. The wound is just as missing as it was before, and no other aches or pains wrack his body. All he feels is slightly sore, like he had slept on something stiff and uncomfortable.

“No, I’m alright,” he confirms, seemingly surprised. He looks to the Ethelde, but her expression betrays nothing, looking just as concerned as the rest of them.

 “Forgive us, Thaon, but,” Ysera starts. “Are you well enough to take part in the ritual? We’re running out of time.”

“Yes,” he replies. “Of course.”

“Are you sure?” Koda checks. “We can attempt it without-”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “I can do it.”

“If you are certain,” Ysera allows.

\---

Predictably, almost inevitably, it doesn’t work.

It’s no one’s fault that it doesn’t work; Cenarius was already too far gone, and Xavius’ hold far too strong. However, this by no means whatsoever stops Malfurion from flying into a rage and taking off somewhere, presumably to go confront Xavius himself. Luckily for them, it seemed that Tyrande had an innate sense of when her husband was about to do something profoundly idiotic and appeared mere minutes after he had left.

“Where is my husband?” she demands in lieu of greeting.

“You just missed him,” Koda apologizes. “He went to find Xavius. We were about to split up and search for him.” Tyrande’s eyes narrow.

“I will go with you,” she tells them, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“Very well,” Ysera allows. “It will take everyone’s combined strength to overcome Xavius’ might. Champion,” she continues, turning to Ethelde. “Come this way; we will search from the air while the Archdruids search the glade.” Ethelde peers at the dragon, thoughtful.

“I believe Lady Whisperwind would be better suited to aiding you than I, Mother of Dreams,” the draenei tells her politely. “I will aid the Archdruids down here.” Ysera raises an eyebrow at her, somewhat surprised at her answer. It isn’t a very common occurrence that a dragon aspect be turned down by one of their mortal champions.

“Very well, then, Champion,” she replies. Ethelde smiles at her peaceably, bowing her head in respect.

\---

In the end, it’s Thaon she accompanies.

Elothir elects to stay behind to keep an eye on the village should something come up, and Koda goes off by herself, able to take care of herself just fine. Ethelde had suggested that she go off by herself as well, but he protested, saying it was too dangerous for someone who wasn’t familiar with these woods, especially for someone so inexperienced with the Nightmare. She saw through him very nearly instantly, he’s sure, but he doesn’t particularly care when none of the other druids did.

“You don’t trust me,” she states simply. She isn’t particularly distraught about it; her gaze is neutral as she focuses it on him, and so is her dagger’s. He’s been feeling the weight of its gaze since he had woken up, and during all this time he’s not sure anyone else had even noticed it besides him. He’s not sure that he had noticed it, either, prior to his waking.

“Have I done something to upset you?” she asks, all genuine concern and polite sincerity.

“No,” he admits reluctantly, swallowing. “Am I wrong in being wary?” he persists. She looks at him another moment. Smiles with closed lips. Doesn’t reply with anything other than a chuckle.

Her pointedly not showing her teeth is somehow more disquieting than her baring them, he finds. She doesn’t say another word about the matter, and stays well within his line of sight. She doesn’t try anything else with the dagger- doesn’t even so much as look at it, instead weaving shadows with her fingers as they encounter the corrupted wildlife- but it keeps its gaze on him, just the same. He thinks she might be doing this for his benefit, perhaps to soothe his obvious unease, and more than once, he catches himself falling for it. But he doesn’t bring it up, and neither does she, despite the prickle it sends down his spine, despite how it raises his hackles.

\---

Xavius, of course, is waiting for them when they find him.

They’ve scarcely stepped into the open when his vines have encircled their limbs. Malfurion struggles in his grasp, as does Thaon, but Ethelde doesn’t seem all that worried, face carefully neutral, even as vines whirl around her limbs. He laughs a bit at their expense, grinning with teeth too large for his mouth, and turns to study the skyline, searching. He pays for this mistake- for taking his gaze of off them for even just a moment- soon after.

Ysera appears on the horizon, rising over the sea of trees with Tyrande on her back, and the satyr smirks, preparing the Tears of Elune, crystals glittering red in his fist. His attention elsewhere, the vines circling Ethelde’s limbs suddenly wither and fall away, leaving her to carefully step over their cut pieces, dagger in hand. She makes not a sound, and her body seems to fade, becoming dark and nearly transparent. She strides towards Xavius, the impact of her cloven hooves silent against the ground, and Xavius finally seems to notice something is wrong, giving the spot he’d left them a cursory check before whirling around to face where she once stood, enraged. Thaon still struggles against the vines, unable to stop himself, and the satyr has no more time to look for his escaped prisoner, long fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him back, baring the softest part of his throat to the edge of the dagger pressed insistently against it.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” Ethelde tells him calmly, almost casually. Her face is alarmingly blank, contrasting jarringly against the tight grip of her knuckles in his hair and around the handle of the knife. The eye is wide open, pupil shrank to a slit the size of a needle, and focused entirely on the satyr, seemingly pinning him down with the force of its gaze alone. Xavius snarls, but can’t seem to bring himself to put up even the most token of struggles, caught in the dagger’s baleful gaze. The light around them seems to fade, shadows manifesting seemingly from nothing and curling around them, eyes blinking into existence all around his head. Thaon swears, he can hear those whispers once more, starting low and slowly becoming louder and louder.

By now, the Mother of Dreams has long since noticed them, and so has Tyrande, wielding a shining, pearlescent bow. The Avatar of Elune fires a single arrow, pure white and bright as a comet, and it finds its mark in his breast, knocking the Tears out of his hands and knocking him out of Ethelde’s grip and onto the ground. Ethelde is knocked away from the impact, but seems no worse for wear, stumbling to her feet before Xavius can recover the Tears of Elune. Xavius tries to yank the arrow from his chest to no avail, glowing white spidercracks spreading from his wound. He snaps and snarls and carries on, but nothing will make it budge, light sapping his strength.

 _“This isn’t over!”_ he hollers at them, dark coalescing around him fast as quicksilver and fading just as rapidly. It leaves nothing of him behind, and finally, the vines constricting the two druids wither and die.

Malfurion drops to the ground, weak from the torture, and Thaon somehow manages to land on his feet, shaking himself off. He bounds to Malfurion’s side, slipping back from his cat-form to his original body as smooth as silk. He helps him up, and Ethelde merely watches as Ysera glides in low and lands beside them.

“You _knew,_ ” Thaon accuses incredulously.

Ethelde smiles. Doesn’t reply.

\---

Malfurion is alright for the most part, but Tyrande is thoroughly unamused by the whole affair and naturally seeks recompense. So does Malfurion, in fact, but no one is about to let him out of their sight after his little tantrum and subsequent capture, Tyrande in particular.

“Champion,” she says, calling Ethelde over. The draenei turns and looks to her with polite interest. “I am in need of your assistance.”

“What is it you need, Lady Whisperwind?” she asks, concerned. She sounds genuine enough but Thaon is having a hard time believing that anything that comes out of her mouth isn’t some kind of trick.

“I cannot trust my husband not to follow us when we go to hunt Xavius,” she explains, eyeing Malfurion wearily. Elothir is overseeing him being patched up by some of his students. The druid in question is grudgingly sitting in one place while his wounds are cleaned. “May I ask that you keep an eye on him while we’re gone?”

“I’m sure Elothir can watch over him just fine,” Thaon says before Ethelde can answer. Ethelde’s gaze flicks over to him, the corner of her mouth quirked up. Tyrande looks a little puzzled at his interruption, but allows him to continue. “Surely he and all his students are enough. Besides, would it not be more prudent to have her assist us while we hunt Xavius?”

“If I may,” Ethelde starts. “I’m inclined to agree with Thaon on this one. I feel that my talents would be much more useful if I were to accompany you, instead. Elothir and his students should be more than enough.”

“Besides,” she adds after a moment, a wry smile playing on her lips. “With how injured he is, I don’t think he’ll be able to leave any time soon. Xavius really did a number on him.” Tyrande looks annoyed for a moment, but she can’t really deny that assessment, so she doesn’t, sighing in resignation.

It doesn’t take them too much longer to ready themselves, which is just as well- Xavius’ trail through the wood is fresh, but won’t linger too much longer with how trees shift and change. It’s better that they try and defeat him now, while he’s injured, then to give him enough time to recover and plot his revenge. They make their way back to the twisted roots of the world tree, not too far from where they had found him the before, and attempt to track him from there.

It doesn’t prove to be too hard; a peculiar, glittering red ichor is splattered in scattered, uneven spots along the path. This isn’t too unusual by itself; the nightmare seemed to be a living entity all its own, and it wasn’t uncommon to find blood and viscera dripping from the trees, a constant open wound. No, what made it unusual was that the area surrounding the blood droplets seemed to be turning back to the verdant green of the Emerald Dream, as if the nightmare around it didn’t exist. It created discordant, cut-out images, green and gold streaking through red and black, spidercracks in the nightmare’s veil. It didn’t produce too large an area, only spreading out a few inches from the ichor, but it was quite a bit for such a small amount. The imprint of Tyrande’s power was unmistakable.

“Well,” Ethelde remarks. “That will certainly speed things along.”

“Indeed,” Tyrande agrees.

Thaon doesn’t reply. He doesn’t mean to be cold, really, but it’s sort of difficult for him to believe that the draenei’s attempt to be personable is genuine with the dagger tracking his every movement. He’s still baffled as to how the others don’t see its roving eye. Ethelde, too, is actively aware of his suspicion, and makes no attempt to hide her amusement that he’s the only one who sees it from him.

“Let’s press on,” he says. “Time is of the essence.”

\---

They come upon an open glade, somehow left untainted by the nightmare. However, it doesn’t seem as though it will remain that way for long, the sounds of battle echoing through the clearing. There are several druids up ahead, holed up in the Sanctum in order to protect it and themselves, perhaps, but while he hears battle he sees no creature born of the nightmare among them. Merely one of the druids who has succumbed to it.

They’ve slipped into the form of a great cat, but it’s been corrupted, fur glimmering with the bizarre black and red iridescence that only comes as the corruption makes itself known, and in them Thaon can see an eerie likeness of himself, lashing out violently at their fellows. The others are trying their best not to harm them, perhaps to stop the corruption before it can start, truly, but they’re most likely too late. It would be kindest just to put the poor beast out of its misery, but it’s hardly his decision to make. Nevertheless, he leaps into the fray, sliding into his own beast skin as easy as breathing, and tackles into them. There’s a scuffle, the other swiping at him and landing a hard hit, he being pushed back slightly before pushing back himself, despite the slashes on his shoulder. He bowls them over completely, pushing them onto their back amidst growling and snarling, and pins them down with one massive paw. It knocks the wind out of them, but not for long, form growing and thickening, tail shrinking, snout lengthening, until finally it’s a bear that shoves him from them, roaring.

It stuns him, the sheer weight behind its great paw sending a shock of pain through his body. He’s dazed for several long seconds, coming back to himself with a jolt. Two of the four druids have taken the form of birds, attempting to lure the corrupted away from him by dive-bombing it. The others attempt to cast hexes on them from a distance, and Tyrande her arrows, but they move around too much to get a clear shot, and it’s too dangerous for them to try and get closer. The birds are risking too much as it is, one swipe of that paw enough to kill them instantly. He gets back to his feet, shaking the dizziness off before pressing the attack. He’s too quick for them to get another good hit on him like before, but the tradeoff is, despite them being slower, they don’t really need to hit him again more than once. He’s fairly certain they’ve broken a few of his ribs from that first one alone. But he’ll be damned if he leaves his fellows for dead, again.

Several things happen very quickly:

The lot of them are trying to divide their attention enough that they won’t be able to focus on any one of them, and it works, somewhat. It opens a gap in their defenses, and Thaon seizes it before he can hesitate, jaws seeking their throat. It proves to be a futile gesture, batted away with the full force of their paw as the nightmare continues to corrupt them, form growing larger and more hideous as it takes hold. He’s knocked away several feet, and can’t recover quick enough to dodge them charging him. They never get the chance.

They try, but coiled around their back leg is a shadowy tendril, first stopping them in their tracks and then dragging them back. They howl with rage, swiping at anything that gets even partway within range, and the other druids back off immediately, knowing true danger when they see it. Another tendril forms and wraps itself around their reaching arm, yanking it down, and another, their muzzle, and another, and another, until finally all of their limbs have been restrained, pulled to the forest floor.

Ethelde strides forward slowly, smile the very picture of serenity, and honestly, Thaon had completely forgotten she was there, watching her pull herself from the shadows as if it was the first time he’d ever seen her. Time slows to a crawl, watching powerlessly as she draws the dagger from her belt and closes in on the creature. They struggle in vain against their bonds, but Ethelde shushes them gently, whispering soothingly to them as darkness gathers around the dagger. She kneels down, the eye locks on them, and they panic, struggling as though they were actually a frightened animal instead of an elf wearing its skin as their own. The priest shushes them again, carding her hand through the fur around their neck before sinking the blade into their heart. They cease resisting, relaxing slowly as if they were falling asleep. When they still completely, Ethelde withdraws the blade, pulling with it the same ichor that bled from Xavius. The blade absorbs it, eye unseeing, and when it finishes, they slip back into their original form- a Kaldorei.

Thaon recognizes him for who he is immediately- a friend from his childhood, Glaidalis.

“To think someone as powerful as Glaidalis could have been taken,” Tyrande laments, withdrawing her bow. She steps towards them, and Thaon is enveloped in Elune’s light, the very presence of her divinity easing his wounds. The edges of the glade push back against the nightmare, slowly consuming the space between.

“Indeed,” Ethelde says. “We were very fortunate to find him before it was too late.” Thaon startles.

“Wait, he’s-?”

“Alive? Yes,” she replies, turning to him. “Vulnerable, but very much alive. He’ll need some time to recover, but he should be alright.” The disbelief must show on his face, because then she sighs, rolling her eyes, but she doesn’t press the matter.

The dagger continues to focus on Glaidalis, for now.

\---

Tyrande mends his and Glaidalis’ wounds easily enough, and it goes without question that the other druids accompany them as well. Elune’s avatar leaves no room for argument, the goddess’ love and fury consuming the entirety of her being. So much so that, when they come upon the ancient, twisted and warped by the nightmare, her arrow finds its mark with all the light and force of a falling star. The nightmare’s influence falls from him in visible patches, shedding it as though it were dead bark and withered leaves. The trail that they have been carving through the thicket widens and consumes the wood before them, Elune’s light piercing and purifying.

Surely, he thinks, with how powerful she is, surely she must see the dagger’s many eyes. She couldn’t _not_ have; even the other druids have seen it, watched it dig into the flesh of their brother and carve out taint and sickness from him. They regard it now with a very distinct fear; one very familiar to his own. So why, why would she tolerate its presence, when it was clearly born of the void? Why would she trust the priest, when it has become clear time and again that she somehow knows more about what’s happening than they do?

\---

“You still don’t trust me,” Ethelde says, on their way through the burrow. They’re towards the back of their group, keeping guard of the rear while Tyrande spearheads their effort. She is still no more upset by this than she was before. “Are you sure I haven’t done something to offend you?” You trusted me before, is left unsaid. You trusted me before you saw.

“That dagger,” Thaon spits. “Is an affront to every living creature. _How could I not be?”_ Ethelde smiles at him, amused. She makes no attempt to hide her sharp teeth, and they are no less unsettling from when he first saw them.

“You’re not wrong,” she tells him. “It’s probably for the best that you don’t trust it.” He stares at her. Stares at it.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, it bursting out of him. “What do you hope to gain, stringing us along like this?” Ethelde studies him, perfectly neutral.

“I am a priest, Thaon,” she tells him finally. “And my duty, firstly, is to serve. In serving others, I serve the greater good. I heal, I mend, I protect, but above all, I serve, no matter what I must do in order to do so, even if that means employing methods others might find unsavory.”

“That dagger is too close to the nightmare for comfort,” he persists. “It shouldn’t be used at all, even if it is for the ‘greater good,’” he spits. She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Should I have left you as you were in the barrows, then?” she asks conversationally. “Is that what you what you would have preferred?” His mouth snaps shut, a growl reverberating from his throat.

“My duty, secondly,” she continues, as if he had said nothing at all. “Is to keep the balance. Light is not light, shadow is not shadow, unless they have the other. Neither is inherently good or evil, it simply is. And this,” she says, taking the blade from her belt. “Is a tool, like any other. What matters is the hand that wields it, and their intentions.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “What are your _intentions,_ then?” She smiles.

“To serve,” she replies.

\---

The dragon discovers their presence in its burrow soon enough.

Tyrande’s tireless march through the trees has resulted in a narrow, winding path of green and gold, pushing insistently against the intruding nightmare. When her feet touch the water of the fen, he can actually see the light rippling from her every step. They soon come upon its brood, dozens of unhatched eggs bathing in the fouled, murky waters. It does not take kindly to their intrusion, particularly Tyrande’s, and but it matters not. The goddess has come to cleanse her misbegotten children, and so she shall.

Her arrow finds its mark soon enough, and the dragon falls to the ground, light pouring from the wound over its heart. It breathes raggedly, exhaling smog, and its scales become paler and paler before it begins to look green again. It lifts its head weakly to look at them, managing a “thank you,” before sleep takes hold. Its breathing slows and deepens, leveling out, and the weeping light slows around the sacred arrow, it and the arrow disappearing into thin air.

He and Ethelde make sure that its head rests upon the shore to allay any worry of it drowning, and the others examine the eggs. They will purify in time; light swells from water’s shallow depths and ripples towards the shoreline. The eye regards him briefly, before becoming bored with him and focusing instead on the splattered ichor further up the path. Ethelde turns and looks with it, and he can’t find the energy to be suspicious of this, thought distantly he knows he probably should be.

\---

They find Xavius licking his wounds in a nest of thorns.

He’s somehow managed to pull the arrow out, but at the cost of the use of his hand, palm burned, claws broken and bloodied, veins turned stark white and travelling up his arm. The initial wound has worsened, spidercracks thickened and spread across his chest. The satyr isn’t so frightening now that it’s been battered up a fair amount, but he knows better than to think that will last. He acknowledges them, finally, expression twisting into incoherent rage, and energies from the nightmare emanate so strongly from him that it halts the purified path in its tracks. A familiar fear rolls around in his belly, pulse racing, but he suspects only he and the other druids are affected by it, shivering in their beast-skins from primal terror being fed directly into their heads, while Tyrande remains firm and resolute. If Ethelde is affected, she doesn’t show it, breathing calmly, corners of her mouth upturned in a slight smirk.

“Stay back,” Tyrande instructs. “You are still vulnerable to the nightmare here. Do not stray from the path.” Thaon bristles, but he knows she’s right; it was barely hours ago that he was taken by the nightmare, and even less that he was taken back from it. It would be best if he stayed back, and only stepped in if absolutely necessary.

“Thaon’s will is strong,” Ethelde points out. “It was only because the satyr had ambushed him that he was able to catch him in the first place.” And Thaon- he’s not entirely sure how he should be taking that, whether it be a vote of confidence or if she’s trying to set him up to fail. He glances at the dagger, and it looks at him briefly before resuming its focus on Xavius.

“Do you think you’re strong enough to face Xavius?” Tyrande asks him directly. Ethelde looks at him expectantly. He nods. “Fine, then. The rest of you, stay back.” Without any further ceremony, Tyrande strides into the clearing, notching an arrow.

Thaon sprints ahead of her, and upon stepping foot into the glen, is almost instantly choked by the miasma not seen from beyond the entrance. Everything’s taken on a strange, iridescent shine, colors oversaturated and warped, and hyperaware of the magic going on around him. Xavius’ already twisted form twists further still, vibrating down to the fibers. Darkness gathers around Ethelde, following her steps and covering her like a veil, eyes constantly forming and reforming and blinking out of existence within the dark. He, too, finds himself veiled by that dark, it following his steps as it does hers, soothing senses that have been scraped raw by the nightmare’s relentless attack on his body. Tyrande is the only one who remains unchanged, form stable and untouched, the only difference being the white light that streams from her body, glowing right from her core.

He circles around the shade, swiping at him, snapping at him, doing all that he can to keep him focused on him and not the two priests. It’s difficult at first, Xavius attempting to parry him and keep his eye on them simultaneously, but Thaon manages to grab his attention when he catches his injured hand in his maw, closing his jaws around it. Xavius howls in pain, and slashes at him with his other hand. He does not let go, sinking his teeth further still, and Xavius shrieks again, slashing at his face again. This time, Thaon releases him. Pain and adrenaline spike, senses going at faster a speed than he should be able to keep up with, panic doing its damnedest to muddle his thoughts. But bafflingly, he’s calm and collected, despite his heart racing and fear flooding his veins. An arrow whizzes past their heads, Tyrande missing just barely and furious for it. Light still floods from the arrow from where it lands, sending Xavius stumbling, but not enough to let Thaon in close again.

He can’t seem to get him to hold still; the most he can do is herd him to one general area. But it’s enough for Ethelde to weave shadows around his limbs and coil them tight. The shade thrashes within its bonds, snapping them more than once, but the priest is persistent, wrapping two and three around him for every one that he breaks. The eyes return, blinking into existence around his limbs, and the binds tighten further and further until they hold him perfectly still, caught in a web of dark strands.

Tyrande fires another arrow. This time, she doesn’t miss, hitting him squarely between the eyes. The arrow bursts into light and gold, disintegrating the shade in a few blinding seconds. The dark strands fade, the golden eyes close, and the flora in the clearing slowly turns green again. The surrounding plant life does not, remaining the unnatural, withered red.

“We’ve destroyed Xavius’ tether to this world, but it’s not enough,” Tyrande grouses. “We need to delve into the nightmare and deal with him, once and for all.”

“It’s enough for now,” Ethelde soothes, shadows falling from her and Thaon. “We’ve earned a well-deserved rest, at least.” He nods, chancing a glance at the dagger. It blinks at him slowly, much like a tired cat would. Thaon sighs.

“She’s right,” he agrees. “We’ve done enough for now. Let’s just get everyone home safely.” Ethelde nods at him in turn, giving him a smile. She’s too exhausted to present any sort of front; it’s small but genuine. He smiles back, despite himself.

**Author's Note:**

> why the fuck did this take so long holy shit  
> anyway: emerald nightmare raid rescue next, buckle up fuckers


End file.
